Drinks at Nine
by Sheryl Nantus
Summary: Inner thoughts and worries...


Disclaimer: They ain't mine and not likely to be - 'nuff said!  
Summary: Inner thoughts and worries...  
Rating: PG  
Vignette  
Archive: Anytime, anywhere - just ask!  
Feedback graciously appreciated at xfdragon@zoominternet.net  
  
Drinks at Nine (1/1)  
By Sheryl Martin/Nantus  
  
Once in a while I have drinks at Gil's apartment. At nine.  
  
Nine in the morning, that is.  
  
It's not often enough that he's going to call me on it or give me that eyebrow arch and make a comment about Human Resources. He knows I know the line and where it stops.  
  
It's always the children that do it to me.  
  
I sit there and mix up my vodka and orange juice while he's making his homemade pancakes and drink as if I were getting up the courage to head out on the stage again and try not to think of the children.  
  
But it's impossible.   
  
Because I have a child. A daughter. And I would kill anyone who would do to her what I've seen done to children.  
  
He knows it. That's why he lets me sit there and get drunk and sometimes weep into my maple syrup and then fall asleep on the couch while he calls Lindsay's school and leaves the message for her to come to Gil's instead of going straight home.  
  
I make no apologies for being so emotional at times. Hell, I've seen Nick wipe away a tear; I've seen Sara sit in her car for a long time in the parking lot and I know it's not because she forgot her keys.  
  
And, I have to admit it - I sometimes hate Grissom for putting me in there. With the children, with the mothers and the monsters who sometimes are one and the same. I confronted him once after a good two or three glasses.  
  
"Why? Why do you keep doing this to me?" My fork dragged across the plate, screeching through the syrup. "Why?"  
  
"Because I can't." He swallowed deeply, looking away. "I don't have the same rapport as you do. As you can with these people."  
  
"What?" My mind was so foggy I didn't see the obvious. Good investigator that I am.  
  
"I don't..." He smiled that haphazard smile/near smirk that makes you want to either hug him or strangle him. "In fifth grade I had a comment on my report card - 'doesn't play well with others'. Some would take that as an indication of a problem. I never thought of it that way." A forkful of pancake disappeared into his mouth; carefully chewed and swallowed. "I don't relate to people in the same way as you do. Which, in certain situations makes you a more valuable investigator than anyone else on the team."  
  
I sniffled through another mouthful of food. "But it's... it's so hard to look at some of them and not think of Lindsay."  
  
"I know. It's hard for me as well." His hand reached across the table; resting atop mine. "But you see more than I can, more than I can ever see. You can see through the layers; see the truth even if they don't see it themselves. And I need that insight." He paused. "The victims need that insight."  
  
Bastard.  
  
I thought I had only said it mentally. Might as well slapped him with the pancake cooling on his plate.  
  
"I'm sorry, Catherine - I didn't realise..."  
  
"No, no." Wrapping my hands around the half-full glass I took another deep swallow. "It's not you. It's just... life."  
  
"No, it's death." Count on Grissom to make it accurate. "We see things that most people don't. We deal with things that most people never imagine, much less have to cope with."  
  
"We see children who are willing to stab little old ladies to death for a cat." I mumbled into the orange juice. "We see fathers molesting their own daughters. We see little boys accidentally killing their little brother and parents trying to cover it up."  
  
"We see the worst in humanity." His hand tightened on mine. "But we also see the best when justice is done."  
  
"Damn you." I pulled my hand free, wiping my eyes with a wet snort. "Trust you to make it make sense."  
  
"Nothing else makes sense." Taking the glass away he dumped the remaining liquid in the sink. "Why do you think I would?"  
  
"Shut up before you make me think too much." As I stood up from where I had been leaning on the counter the room began to do a mamba.   
  
"Whoa." A hand clamped down on my arm, steadying me as I lurched towards the couch. "Time for you to stop thinking and start sleeping. Got another shift tonight, you know - and I'm not letting you call in sick." He gave me an evil grin. "I'll make you work day shift to make up the hours if you do."  
  
"Bastard." I grumbled loudly as I slid down on the couch, snuggling into the cushion as I felt the blanket settle around my shoulders.  
  
"Only when I need to be." His words came to me from a distance as I shut my eyes. "And don't think I don't see your pain. Or share it."  
  
I suppose I should say that I figured out how to put up the walls, hide my soul and stop having drinks at nine.  
  
But I haven't. I can't. Not when it could make the difference between solving a crime and letting a criminal walk free.  
  
So I manage, somehow.   
  
Like everyone else here. Because I know I'm not the only one. 


End file.
